


Holding On

by KickingRoses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KickingRoses/pseuds/KickingRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows that the first thing John is going to do when he sees him after believing he was dead is punch him. So Sherlock figures out a crafty way to avoid that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding On

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little piece of sappy fluff that I wrote based on a prompt on the Sherlock kink meme on LJ.

  
It had been nearly thirty years since he'd embraced someone of the same gender.  
  
He'd stood alone in the deserted playground, surrounded by the rucksack that had been torn apart and thrown into the dirt, while shreds of his notebook were scattered around in the wind like paper snow. The bullies were gone but he still couldn't move. He stood, his fists at his side, his head bowed, black curls masking his scrunched up eyelids.  
  
It was only when the tall shadow of an older boy was cast upon him that he looked up.  
  
Five year old Sherlock's resolve crumbled. Tears streamed from his eyes.  
  
"Myke!"  
  
He flung himself at the barely teenage Mycroft. His little arms hooked around his brother's waist and he sobbed into the matching blue private-school uniform. He'd done so well to keep up his stone façade as the others had tormented him. Even when they'd gone, he'd tried not to break in case they came back and saw him. But with Mycroft here, he didn't care. Mycroft meant Safety. Mycroft meant Home.  
  
The elder Holmes had stayed stock still. He barely reacted and kept his eyes on the defiled rucksack Mummy had bought for Sherlock the previous weekend. No doubt there would be trouble for them to face at home.  
  
He placed a hand on his brother's head; "That's enough now, Sherlock. You're not a baby anymore. It's time to grow up and stop running to the arms of others."  
  
He repeated the words Father had said to him at that age. The words that had done him a world of good.  
  
Sherlock had never felt so frozen, despite clinging to Mycroft's warm body. His big brother had never denied Sherlock a cuddle before. Since before he could remember, whenever anything made him cry; Mycroft was there. Mycroft would pick him up or pull him close. Mycroft would let him crawl into his bed. Mycroft would be there with open arms. Mycroft made it all better.  
  
Only he couldn't anymore. Sherlock was bright and quickly understood.  
  
This was the real world now. And as he'd learned already it was cold, cruel and lonely. Mycroft wouldn't be around forever. He'd disappear. Just like Father often did. He'd never even considered the possibility before. His little heart hardened and he detached his arms from Mycroft's middle and backed away.  
  
He sniffed and bit down on his lip; "I'm sorry."  
  
Mycroft felt his chest tighten at how the avatar of his sweet, innocent little brother cracked before him. _No. It's best he learns this now._  
  
"Come now. We best go home before Father gets back from work. Perhaps if we tell Mummy then she won't tell him about what happened or ask where your rucksack is." advised Mycroft.  
  
Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around himself.  
  
But he didn't look to Mycroft for help or protection. He abandoned the ruined rucksack and began to walk. From now on, he was on his own.  
  
*  
  
Ever since that day, the only hugs Sherlock gave where obligatory embraces that only a mother deserved. First his biological one and later his dear Mrs. Hudson. Even where they were concerned, he never asked for their affection, he never went to them desperate for comfort.  
  
As for his male associates. Father. Mycroft. His 'friends' at Uni. Nothing progressed further than a handshake or a pat of comradeship on the shoulder.  
  
And that was fine. He was stronger now. Older. Braver.  
  
For all the bitter resentments gained in his relationship with Mycroft over the years, not once did he stop being grateful to his brother for saying those words, for showing him how the real world worked. It wasn't that he loathed human contact. It was simply unnecessary.  
  
That was until, one time, it was necessary.  
  
When Sherlock had stood before John Watson for the first time in three years since faking his death. After countless months of travelling, tracking, decoding, fighting, surviving with little time for food or rest - he was tired. His work was done. Moriarty's empire had fallen. All he wanted was to return to London. To see his friends. And for there to be no more exhausting trials to overcome (at least for a few days).  
  
But there was one last challenge remaining. The challenge of gaining John's forgiveness.  
  
The look in the ex-soldier's eyes had confirmed all the fears he'd had about John's most likely reaction to seeing him. Shock flickered to disbelief which simmered to acceptance and quickly boiled into fury. His best friend hated him and, yes, even Sherlock knew that he had every right to despise him for what he'd put him through. But Sherlock was just so bloody tired.  
  
He saw John's hands curl into juddering fists at his sides. Sherlock gulped, remembering clearly how painful John's punches could be when he wanted to hurt you. And the punches he'd felt before had been when John had been trying not to hurt him. He dreaded the damage John could do when truly angry. _Not today, thanks,_ thought Sherlock. He sprang forwards.  
  
In a heartbeat, Sherlock's arms were wrapped around John's entire frame. He bound the doctor's arms to his sides and clutched him to his chest as if for dear life.  
  
John was rigid in his hold. He struggled and Sherlock barely managed to stifle a laugh as he heard John swear under his breath that he couldn't wriggle his fists out of Sherlock's hug. He was paralysed by Sherlock's constricting arms. The sudden swelling in Sherlock's heart made him lift John off his feet as he raised him to his own height level for a second before dropping the his hardly feather-light friend back on the ground.  
  
It was lucky for Sherlock that John found laughter so contagious. He felt the shorter man break down into chuckles against him. His rage quickly defused into overwhelmed joy and relief. Eventually John's arms found their way around Sherlock's middle. His fingertips dug into the fabric of Sherlock's coat. The detective smiled wickedly. His scheme had worked, as they always did. John continued to giggle against Sherlock's chest while the taller man's hand came to rest upon his head.  
  
"I'm going to punch you as soon as you let go, you know." muttered John into the crook of Sherlock's neck.  
  
"Would that essentially be a non-too-subtle way of telling me not to let go?"  
  
John clicked his tongue; "...Yes."  
  
It then became clear that; no. Punch or no punch - he didn't want to let John go. He knew he would have to at some point but it didn't mean it would have to be for the last time. Never again. It didn't matter much older or stronger or braver he was. He wouldn't give this up for all the cigarettes in London.  
  
The two men continued to grin like the pair of silly idiots they were, wrapped around each other, oblivious to the world spinning around them.  
  
And just like that, Sherlock was safe. Sherlock was home.  
  



End file.
